Inheritance
by AquilaMage
Summary: For a time, Sebastian had grown up with one loving parent. And despite everything that happens after she's gone, it's his mother's memory that carries him through and her influence that sticks, in the end.


**A/N:** Just a head's-up that this contains mentions of emotional/psychological abuse and references to physical abuse, as well as minor implied character death.

* * *

Sebastian has no physical mementos of his mother. When she disappeared, it was as though all evidence of her existence vanished overnight with her. His father never talks of her; if it hadn't been for the way he'd snapped the first time Sebastian had asked, after, he might have suspected she'd disappeared from his mind as well. What Sebastian _has_ is memories – a bit scattered and fuzzy in places, but fiercely treasured.

xxxxxxxx

He's never quite able to picture her, beyond dark hair and a calm smile that always made him feel safe. People had remarked on how much he didn't look like her, though; he can recall that. Then as well as now, he's inundated with comments about how he takes after his father. For a while that had been a point of pride for Sebastian, something he'd tried to capitalize on to become even more like him. (Which only makes things hurt all the more when the truth is revealed. He avoids mirrors for a week, sick to his stomach by what he sees and terrified even long after about what it says about him, whether he really has any choice in what he will become.)

His father, on the other hand, only ever sees his mother in him. Sebastian – well, it can't really be called imitation if he doesn't realize he's doing it, but in every little gesture he makes there's a spark of her influence. Even more infuriating is the fact that no matter how hard he tries, Sebastian can't be made to stop caring – about things, about other people, about wanting to be loved in return - and Blaise knows that's all _her_ doing.

If there was anyone else around who remembered, they would have spotted it too. It's just another part of the tragedy that there isn't.

xxxxxxxx

He remembers her voice most clearly, solid and kind and always, always gentle. She spent a lot of time talking to him. Even when they weren't conversing, she liked to explain what she was doing, would give a running commentary as they did errands to keep him amused, and there was always encouragement and praise at his attempts, successful or no.

He'd liked most the way she said his name, slightly drawn-out and with the cadence of a song. It had made him feel special, enough that when he finally told her he wanted a different one, it had been practically in hysterics over losing that feeling. But she'd simply scooped him up and held him, and the first time she said his new one – _Sebastian_ – it had been sweeter than the other one ever sounded.

Sometimes, she would switch languages to a soft Japanese, talking with a freeness that only showed itself in those moments. It had been like a secret code between the two of them, albeit one that they didn't use around other people. Sebastian came to notice her excitement whenever he'd ask her for a new word, and did so often, repeating it back to her as she patiently corrected his pronunciation. A particularly memorable afternoon, he'd noticed her solemn and quiet in a different way than usual and ended up bringing item after item from around the house for to her to name, piling things up around her on the couch until she cried with laughter.

In the time after she's gone, he keeps up the language as best he can inside his head. A reassurance, like he can pretend he's still able to talk to her. Like she's still there to guide him, if only in this small way.

And after one of his early conversations with Prosecutor Blackquill, he even picks up learning it again, emboldened by the new life and layers of connection it brings. (Plus, it would've made her happy, he knows.)

xxxxxxxx

The other thing he picked up from her was music. Her enjoyment was utterly contagious, even in that informal bits and pieces that were all he ever witnessed firsthand.

Sebastian remembers sitting on her lap in front of a piano (the wheres and hows and whys of the context that brought them to that moment completely forgotten) his small hands slapping at whatever section of keys he could reach. She let him for a while, laughing softly. Then, she reached forward and began playing. He doesn't recall what the song was, just that at the time he was absolutely certain she was doing some kind of magic. As soon as she finished, he stuck his own hands back on the keys. He tried to mimic the graceful movements he'd watched her make, but the sounds still came out as a discordant and jarring as the first time. Tears welled up in his eyes, and she'd wrapped her arms around him, tight but gentle. "It's alright, sweetheart. Breathe with me." And when he'd calmed, she walked him through the basic steps, guiding with his hands with her own. The end result wasn't anything as complex as what she'd played, but it was _music,_ and Sebastian fell in love with it instantly.

Mostly she'd sung for him: lullabies whispered in his ear before naps, echoing choruses of whatever was playing at the store they were in, and her own playful renditions of his new favorites after he'd asked for them a dozen times over. Sometimes, she even made ones up, just for him. Usually simple and lighthearted, based on whatever they were doing at the moment as a way to entertain them. But occasionally she'd encourage him to add on bits of his own, or even start them off. Even if he faltered, she was always nodding along, gentle encouragement and support to keep him going.

His father mocked him for wanting to study music in school, but let him, saying that it was fitting, given that it was just as useless and a waste of time as he was. Sebastian ignored it as best he could anything his father said. Besides, once he'd started he forgot all about it, swept up in fascination that devoured his attention for days. There was comfort even beyond his established associations, in the structured variety and endless possibility that even if it didn't come as easily to him always managed to be worth the frustration.

Klavier gives him regular music recommendations, something to entertain the both of them. Eventually, he stumbles on one in particular where just listening to the first few notes brings him to tears. He doesn't realize why, though, until a while later, when Kay offers to help him research his mother. They stumble on something with her maiden name and he freezes. It's the same one as on the piece of music. He does a bit more digging and finds a collection of other songs she'd apparently started publishing in her early twenties, which stop a few years later – around the same time she met his father. (Neither of them might be around for him to ask, but he's still pretty confident in his conclusion that that's no coincidence.)

It takes him some time to go through them all, less from volume than the sheer amount of energy it takes out of him. Hearing her voice for the first time in almost a decade is like having every feeling he'd tried to hide from pulled out of him at once. Not that it stops him. Even as he sits sobbing with the same song paused for the twelfth time, eventually the tears dry up and he takes deep breaths until he can handle the comfort and the memories again, and presses play.

Some of them are harder to handle than others. The first time he starts up a song and _recognizes_ it, could have sung it himself from how many times she'd whispered it to him when he couldn't sleep, he doesn't touch any of them for a week. When he gives in it's to listen to that same one on repeat for a couple of hours until it feels as though all the emotion has been wrung out of him.

xxxxxxxx

It's no coincidence that most of his happy memories of her are just between the two of them. His father had still been the same person back then, and while things got worse after she'd 'disappeared,' he's pretty sure now that it had more to do with her not being around to try to soften things than anything else. He tries not to think about the times of his parents interacting. His mother was always different, then. Quiet and smaller and that scared him the most, sometimes.

As he got older, he came to understand more of it, some of that threatening to taint even memories of just her. (Like the delicate touch of lace from her gloves, which he'd found so pretty. He didn't realize why she always wore them until a few years after she disappeared, and only then after the pain had died down).

There'd been a time, a while after she'd been gone, when Sebastian tried to forget about her, to hide away the memories. His father had almost convinced him that she'd left because of him, that she'd gotten tired of pretending to care about him, been fed up with how stupid and incompetent he was. That he was the good parent because he wasn't going to abandon Sebastian (no matter how much Sebastian would deserve it if he did).

Sebastian believed him, for a while. It was the only thing that could make sense to him. After all, if his mother really had loved him, why would she have left?

Sometimes it had just been easier to deal with things that way. If he pretended like things had always been like this, it was easier to stand. To pretend like how his father treated him was normal. If he didn't know anything else then there would be nothing to miss – no part of him that could hope maybe things would change, maybe he could convince his father to love him too…

But sometimes _not_ forgetting was what made things easier. Sometimes, when he was huddled by himself (in his room, most times) after some encounter with his father, trying to muffle the sound of his crying, he'd recall the times when his mother found him in much the same position. She'd coax him out and scoop him up in her arms, whispering: soft, soothing.

And in the end, that's what happened more, what made it worth the pain of remembering her. Sebastian never could really bring himself to forget her. (Even if he also couldn't stop telling himself he could change his father's mind.) Now, he's grateful for it. Knowing the truth of everything, that he can trust what he'd felt from his memories, and that despite everything his father had done to him, he hadn't been able to take his mother from him completely.

He builds his life back up, with the precious bits and pieces she's left him, with the parts of his father he'll never be able to fully escape (and the slow acceptance that it's alright, that he can still be a different person than his father was), and by walking a path fully and utterly his own with the help of those here to guide him.

And somehow, he knows it will be enough.


End file.
